


The Darling of Monsters

by LectersDaughter



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, M/M, Murder Husbands, Other, adding tags as I go, i'm terrible at tags, mischa is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectersDaughter/pseuds/LectersDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the infamous murder husbands evade capture and fall into their new lives together, the pair return to the states to visit an old friend. Within the fallen snow over Manhattan, Will and Hannibal don't have to search far to find what they're searching for. Will feels starstruck, while his other half surprisingly keeps his cool, as they come face to face with the one person they never thought they'd come across. Mischa Lecter. Known to all as Doctor Mischa Locke, the accomplished prodigy has almost no knowledge of her bloodline. Her last remaining relative and his beloved are determined to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darling of Monsters

With snow covering the expanse of the vast city, this was the hospital’s busiest times of the year. From the common cold to broken limbs and other snowball-related injuries, the emergency room was just about packed. 

Will did not want to be there, did not need to be there; Hospitals had always made him feel uneasy, but his partner was persistent in his persuasion. The cannibal’s skilled tongue made it impossible to deny the man anything. So after what felt like hours of his ass in the air and Hannibal’s tongue making his eyes water, the former-profiler was was walking through the automatic doors of the clinic with his boyfriend in tow.

The woman at the front desk looked nice enough, with cropped dark hair and eyes to match, she flashed Will a toothy grin before beckoning him over. “What can I help you to with today?” She asked.

“Hi, uh- I had a bad case of encephalitis- well, Anti-NMDA Receptor Encephalitis to be exact - a few years back and I- um, I think it may be returning.” He cracked and shook his cadence in all the correct places.

“Damn, alright.” She began, attention directed to gathering the necessary paperwork. “Just fill this out and a doctor will be with you shortly.” Her Long-Island lit filled the room as she handed the forms to Will.

Taking measured steps to their seats, Will lowered his voice out of earshot. “You still haven’t told me why the hell we’re here.”

Hannibal snatched the clipboard from his companion and began to fill-in the required information. “Trust me, all will become clear quite soon.” He placed a kiss on the empath’s forehead.

With an exaggerated eye-roll and frustrated huff, Will sat back in his seat and waited for whatever hell was coming for them.

Hannibal returned to the receptionist to hand in the forms, surely putting on the charm in order to gainsay any possible suspicion. Will snorted to himself as he watched his lover give the young woman his classic grin that could disarm the cruelest dictator. They had built a life together over this past year on the run. After jumping from city to city to shake Jack Crawford off their tail, the pair settled down in Denmark. Will refused to let the cannibal immerse himself in the luxuries he had grown accustomed to. Hannibal’s specific tastes were what got him caught back in Italy all those years ago, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to allow that to happen again. But the obvious threat of danger that surrounded the man’s indulgences did not stop Hannibal from pouting about it. 

His beloved’s hand on his cheek and breath at his ear brought his attention back to the present situation. “Your name is Johnathan Ives you live in Manhattan. You were born in Alabama and moved to New York after college.” 

“And you are?” Will asked, bringing a hand up to clutch the fabric encasing his lover’s bicep.

“I am Charles Leclair, your partner.” Hannibal replied.

“Wait, Leclair… you’ve mentioned that name in the past.” The empath searched his memories for the surname.

The wry chuckle that fell from his lips was accompanied by a barely-suppressed roll of the eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Jean-Marie Leclair, was it?”

Hannibal hid his proud grin in his consort’s neck, humming in-line with the vibrations of the other’s laugh. 

“Mister Ives?” Will lifted his gaze to the florence nightingale standing in the doorway, nodding to the man in confirmation.

The couple stood, walking behind the nurse hand-in-hand to examination room three. 

“The doctor will be in momentarily.” He said before promptly exiting the room.

Will hopped up on the paper-covered examination table, feeling like he was five years old again when he’d get his annual checkup.

“What was it like?” He asked, staring at an anatomical poster of the nervous system on the wall. “Being a surgeon, what was it like?”

“Busy.” The man was wandering aimlessly around the room, hands in his pockets, taking note of each detail it possessed. “Exciting, terrifying, fulfilling, emptying.”

“Sounds like a conflicting experience.” Will quipped, switching his gaze back onto the Lithuanian. 

Hannibal chuckled, turning to face his beloved. “It was. Though, times were different then.”

“How do you mean?” The empath tilted his head in contemplation.

“Well, I started out as a surgeon around 1985.” The Lithuanian looked to the ceiling as if his memories of thirty years ago were held there. “Most of the population smoked, including doctors, including me. You could smoke inside at just about any location. Things were less strict back in the day, less intense- you remember. Now, technology has evolved impressively in the past ten years or so and so have disorders and diseases; it seems now more than ever, new disorders and pathogens are being discovered and recognized. I can only imagine how much stress today’s medical professionals are under.”

Will could only nod. He thought about Hannibal, twenty years younger and fresh out of graduate school. He’d seen a picture of the man from back in the late 80s, shown to him by his lover after enough alcohol to loosen up the both of them. The photo depicted a man, half-asleep with hair as dark as the black button-up he donned, he looked as if he hadn’t shaved nor slept in a day or two, his lab coat wrapped around his shoulders as a cigarette hung loosely between his fingers. The southern-boy teased Hannibal about how he’d never seen him outside with a hair out of place. He had said the same thing then: “Times were different.”

After another finger or two of whiskey, Will brought out his own picture from 1990, a quid pro quo for the other’s candid shot. Back when he first started out on the force, a rookie cop for NOPD. His new partner, a class clown from Baton Rouge, snapped the photo with a new polaroid camera he wanted to test out. Never one to like being photographed, Will had a tendency to make himself scarce whenever a camera was seen. So the sly son of a bitch jumped at the chance when the rookie was just stepping out of the precinct, unbeknownst of his coworker’s hijinks. The photo was given to him when he was promoted to detective. Hannibal was not the only one who changed in the past few years, Will had only dusting of stubble across his jawline, his hair more unkempt. But what caught the former-surgeons eye was the combination of all elements of the photograph. His beloved looked no older than twenty, donning a fitting police uniform and his usual unamused expression; the image made his pants tighten just slightly.

The sounds of the door opening and heels clacking filled the small room, forcing him back from his nostalgic haze.  
“Hello, Mr. Ives, how are you today?” The woman said as she made her way over to the sink to wash her hands.

The woman’s voice wasn’t American; British, southern to be exact, judging by the inflection of certain vowels and consonants. She was quite captivating, a beauty that people of all genders and sexualities could not help but admire. Her hair hovered atop her shoulders in a faded shade of brown, her eyes deep and dark, lips full and blush. There was something so familiar about her, something that invoked a sense of sentiment in the empath, but he couldn't identify it for the life of him.

He cleared his throat. “Not bad. And yourself, Doctor…?”

“Oh, apologies, it seems I forgot to introduce myself, how rude of me.” She placed the clipboard on the counter beside her before turning back to Will. “Doctor Mischa Locke, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She held out her hand for him to shake.

The room had felt as if it suddenly was devoid of all oxygen, suffocating the couple with just a few words. Will's head was spinning with thoughts of: 'It couldn't be.' And, 'It's not possible.'. How he managed to keep his jaw off the floor, Will wasn't sure. If this was true, if she was the same Mischa, then the empath had to make sure not to scare her off. With a shaky hand, the man returned the handshake in a firm grip.  
"The pleasures all mine." He replied.

When the young doctor turned her back to examine the forms secured on the clipboard, Will turned to his beloved.  
Questioning eyes forcibly locked on to the detached orbs of his other half. Words were unneeded to convey his query, blue-green eyes burning into Hannibal’s skull were enough. The elder man answered with with nothing else but a curt nod, confirming Will’s theory in such a composed manner that made the empath want to scream. God, was it possible that his encephalitis actually did return? He thought to himself. 

“Alright, Mr. Ives, I’m going to flash a small light in front of your eyes so please try to keep your focus straight ahead.” The young woman directed, placing her fingers under his chin before tilting his head upwards with a soft smile. Fishing a pen light from the breast pocket of her doctors coat, she flashed the light into Will’s eyes, testing the way each pupil dilated to the exposure to acute levels of illumination. 

With a musing hum and nibbled lip, the brunette turned from the man to scribble something down on his chart. “So, Anti-NMDA Receptor Encephalitis, how the hell did you manage that?” She asked, moving back to listen to Will’s heart-rate. Retrieving the stethoscope from around her neck, the woman placed each bud in her ears as she looked up at the empath for his answer. 

He cleared his throat once again, a nervous tick, before responding. “Well, uh- I have a very… active brain and, while there was no tumor, I had contracted antibodies against my NR1-NR2 NMDA receptors. My job at the time as well as some virulent people were taking quite a toll on me which aggravated the illness.” His words were rushed and eleven, as they typically were when the man was under stress. 

“Bleeding hell, sounds like a quite distressing experience.” She switched tools, pulling a sterile thermometer from the supply cabinet above the sink. “Open.” She held the instrument level with his lips. 

Following jotting Will’s vitals down in his chart, the brunette pulled the rolling stool over to take a seat. “Why do you believe that your illness has returned?” 

He turned to Hannibal, knowing his knowledge of his erstwhile ailment was at the end of its rope. With a resigned sigh, the former-surgeon acquiesced, hands still shoved into his pockets. “My partner has been experiencing acute headaches, paranoia, short-term memory loss, and abnormal heart-rate and blood-pressure. All symptoms have been present for the better part of this past month and have been frequent and antagonizing in nature. We know that it is unlikely that John’s encephalitis has returned, but one can never be too careful about these types of things.” Will had to hold back a snort at the significant change in his lover’s persona.

After the fall, Hannibal was different. He began dressing down, though only for the purpose of being discreet; the man’s speech was also taken down a notch, becoming more casual and less pretentious and cryptic; overall, Hannibal Lecter became more open. It was no longer menacing riddles and dangerous games between them; the dynamics of their relationship turned into a melting pot of playful quips and teasing, subtle-but-known sentimental affection, regular sexual activity, and, of course, the capture and consumption of the rude. All in all, it was their own type of domestic bliss. 

“Well, looking at his vitals, I can tell you that the illness does not appear to be resurfacing for a second appearance, but rather, Johnathan may be experiencing after-shocks of the ailment; a phantom-limb type sensation, if you will.” Each word she spoke, no matter how mundane, seemed to reel you in. Each intonation of her voice further engaged you in whatever she had to say. Like a fabled siren, her voice made you want to listen, want to drink in each word that fell from her lips. 

“The headaches may continue to be a nuisance, but ill write you a prescription for decent painkillers to make it more bearable.” She added, turning back round to the counter to scribble down her john hancock on the patient’s file and an analgesic script.

“Heres a prescription for Demerol, a decent NSAID. Fifty milligrams should do the trick when you need it but wait atlas four hours between doses.” Her eyes never left Will’s as her voice turned clinical, wanting to make sure that he understood.

“Thank you, Doctor.” The empath said, accepting the prescription.

“No problem, darling. If you have any questions, my number is on the drug order.”

Will nodded in understanding.

“Now, if that is all you gentlemen require, my shift has ended.” The young physician looked down at her wristwatch.

“Of course, thank you, Doctor Locke.” Hannibal said with a smile.

“Anytime. Take it easy, you two.” She bid the men adieu, leaving the door open for the men as she left, the click of her heels echoing through the halls as she departed.

The pair exited the clinic in silence, heavily contemplating what they just experienced. 

It was her, the real her. God, she looked so much like Hannibal. Dark eyes, pointed teeth, and a voice that could charm anyone into kneeling at her feet.

The crisp winter air hit them as they reached the outside, Hannibal instantly reaching for his pack of smokes. 

Both men picked up the habit not long after their plunge into a new life, each having a history with tobacco. Will started back on the bayou, smoking being a fix everyone indulged in back in the late 80s. He nearly coughed his lungs out on the first drag, the other dock workers laughing their asses off and patting him on the back. It marked a kid’s coming of age down in the south, sucking on a cancer stick meant transitioning from boy to man. Back in the summer heat of Louisiana, Will could be found fixing boat motors on the docks with grease in his hair and a cigarette between his lips. Hannibal acquired a taste for nicotine back in high school, his boarding school roommate offered him a drag and he enjoyed the smoldering burn that ran down his throat. The habit continued on throughout his young adulthood, only quitting when he turned his focus to psychiatry. Most doctors were heavy smokers back in the day, back when it was appropriate to enjoy a cigarette indoors. The cannibal found that it helped him concentrate when burying his nose in study material. When the couple fled to France after faking their deaths, both men quickly fell back into their old ways.

Will snatched the cigarette from between the other’s lips, taking a deep drag of it as Hannibal rolled his eyes and lit up a replacement.

“How the hell are you so calm?” The empath asked, full of exasperation and left over anxiety as he slumped down onto the chilled bench.

Hannibal sat next to him, looking out onto the city as he inhaled the burning nicotine. “Im not.”

Will sighed, running a quivering hand through his hair. “I saw her grave.”

“You saw the measures I took to keep her safe.” 

His head was spinning, trying to grasp the situation at hand. “Does Chiyoh know?”

“Yes.” The Lithuanian answered, continuing to gaze directly ahead.

“She doesn’t remember you.” 

“No.”

The details weren’t adding up. “Locke? Why-“

“Because,” Hannibal interrupted. “She did not grow up a Lecter.” 

“You gave her up to protect her.”

“Yes.” 

The silence stretched on as Will took in the new information.

“What was the point of this? To torture yourself? To let me know she was alive?”

The former-psychiatrist took another drag, letting the smoke spill out into the air on an exhale. “We have a new life, a new chance at happiness… I don’t want to hurt her. I- I wish I could stay as far away as possible but I miss her, I miss her terribly. I-“ His sigh was shaky. “I want her back, Will.”

The empath slid closer to his beloved, intertwining their fingers together. “Okay... We'll get her back, Hannibal."

**Author's Note:**

> Un-Beta'd. Constructive criticism is encouraged and appreciated. Re-do of Non Morto.


End file.
